


Pride's Point of View

by Feynite



Series: Looking Glass [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:38:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5103206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parts of Looking Glass done from the point of view of the young wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Courting

He has absolutely no idea how to approach this.

That, on its own, is a little unnerving. The only person he can ask for information on her world’s courtship practices is  _her_ , which, obviously, cannot happen yet. He has to test the waters first.

He simply has no idea what waters would even qualify for testing.

Her world  _does_  seem to have some similarities to his own, however. Mythal mentioned that, and so he thinks to himself that the first step in this process is going to be puzzling out what, hypothetically, her culture would consider proper courtship, based on what little he knows of it.

Projecting queries of emotional intent is right out, probably. They are not quite at the gift-giving stage, though in this category, at least, he thinks he can manage. She has an aversion to opulence and finery, and likes practical things. And books. Probably. He could have a proper weapon made for her, something menacing and powerful that she could wield, muscles taut, skin glistening with sweat as they practised on the field, or faced down foes together, side beside as she brought enemies to their knees, her eyes sharp and focused until they turned towards him at the finish, and they sharpened with a different sort of gleam…

Er, yes. That would probably work.

Later on.

How many stages would her culture expect a courtship to have?

With such short lifespans, how many years do they generally take? Probably not more than ten. Five? That doesn’t seem very long. 

Well, he reasons, he can attempt the first few steps, and if she seems to be receptive,  _then_  he can make a bolder move and ask for clarifications. She likes plants and being outdoors, so… flowers? Yes, flowers. Natural ones, not the kind with crystalline petals or elements shaped into plants or anything like that. He shall have to try and subtly figure out what colours she prefers.

And… serenading? But he has no idea what kind of music she likes. Perhaps poetry? And some simple accompaniment. A harp or flute. Something to give him a reason to broach the topic of her musical tastes in conversation. Or would that be too obvious? He has touched her a few times, mostly in terms of friendship, but if he handles this wrong it could seem as though he was taking liberties with her person in an attempt to skip steps.

That would not do. She is insecure enough in her position in society, he must  _absolutely_  treat this with the utmost respect. Mythal’s vallaslin gives her some standing, at least, but even so, a person of his rank and a person of hers… he would not have her think that he means to use her. Not for an instant.

So. Yes. Flowers, poetry, outdoors… he wonders if he could contrive to catch her at one of the gardens back home. Or on a balcony, even. Yes. A balcony, he thinks. She would stare at the sky, as she sometimes does, as if she is lost and far away, and then he would begin his recital, and pull her back. He would watch her face, and read her emotions there. First she would be surprised, and then maybe even a little disdainful. She might think he was making fun of her, or doing something frivolous. But his words would win her over.

He would have to pick them  _just so._

Gradually, she would begin to smile. Then her eyes would gleam. She would look away, in a rare moment of bashfulness, and when he finished he would ask if she might entertain another recital from him.

And she would say yes.

Or he would find her in one of the gardens, he thinks. One of the small ones, private and secluded, sitting with the spirits. They would flit away when he arrived, and she would be in a good mood. She would greet him. He would take the seat next to her, and explain that he had been thinking of her lately. Then he would offer to recite the poem for her.

He would forget about the musical accompaniment, this time. It would be more private. She would probably tell him that poems were silly, but he would ask again, and she would relent. Then he would tell her. He would find the words, and it would all come spilling out of him, but _subtly._  How she is so surprising. How he wants to know more about her. How he wishes there could be less sadness in her gaze; how he longs for the occasional light of joy he sees to be easier for her to hold onto.

She would be moved. His words would be so perfect that she would clasp a hand to her heart, and when he finished the moment would be so  _right_  that she would lean forward, swaying towards him, and he would bend down to her and they would  _almost_  kiss but then he would remember - propriety.

He would pull back and beg another audience with her, instead. Perhaps he would even… perhaps he would brush her cheek again, as he had so boldly done that night she took him to the tavern. Just so that she would know he was withdrawing to be respectful, and not to deny her.

He sighs.

Or perhaps she would say no, and laugh at his efforts. Perhaps she would turn him down, gently, explaining that it was a bad idea, or that she did not see him in such a light, or that her heart still belonged to the other wolf, who had stolen it and eaten it and then stranded her all alone.

He would fight that wolf, if he could.

But it is already dead.

So he will have to do what he can with words and flowers, instead, and hope that her heart will yield to another.

The worst, he thinks, would be if he somehow made her afraid.

He is not that kind of wolf. He will wait as long as it takes for her to realize that.


	2. Sha-Brytol

A wall goes up.

He sees it rocket towards the ceiling, shattering the spells he immediately casts to try and weight it down. Heedless and unyielding.

No.

No, no, no, she was on the  _wrong side!_

Why had she been so far away from the rest of them?

A bolt of fear slides down his spine as she realizes she is trapped, fending off the entirety of the attacking force alone. She will not last long like that. They will kill her.

He musters a blast of concussive force, strong as he can make it.

“Do n-” Haninan begins.

He hurls the spell at the stone.

The  _bang_  of it strikes, shakes them chamber, and then blasts the rest of them off of their feet.

He hits the ground, the hard surface knocking the breath from his lungs and setting stars to spin across his vision. He hears a groan, and looks over to see their dwarven guide rolling over, hands pressed to the sides of his head. Alive, then.

Pride rises, and grabs the traitor by the front of his tunic.

“ _What is the meaning of this?_ ” he demands.

“ _What?_ ” the dwarf asks.

“ _Open that wall. Now_ ,” he says, and sets the stocky figure ungently back onto the ground.

The dwarf stares at the wall, and then turns back towards him.

“ _I cannot,”_  it admits.

“ _Cannot, or will not?_ ”

“Wolfling,” Haninan says. “He was attacked, too.”

“That could be a ruse,” he insists. “And we have no time to delay. Every second we waste is a second she is left fending off those creatures!”

“They were trying to take her alive,” Curiosity says, though she, too, is glaring at the wall.

Alive. Yes, of course they wanted her alive. They wanted her knowledge. And what better time to strike than before they could leave the depths of this place, and the range of easy access? Easy ambush? This scout had no doubt been assigned to lead them into a trap.

He draws his blade.

“Wolfling!” Haninan snaps.

“ _Was this the plan all along? To lure us here and take her?_ ” he asks, coldly.

Wide-eyed and hesitant, the dwarf shakes its head.

“He has too many questions,” Curiosity says. “He was not expecting this.”

He draws in a sharp breath.

Wide, fearful eyes stare up at him.

…Fine.

Perhaps he had only known the route, then. So that he could not be convinced to give up the truth afterwards; so that his apparent honesty would make them believe this was all just the work of rogues, or something similar.

Which makes him useless for lowering that  _cursed wall._

_“Take us back to Lady Ortahn,”_  he decides, gut twisting at the thought of turning further away, and heading in the wrong direction. But there is little they can do from here now. They will follow these assailants, however. Lady Ortahn will yield the way.

Or he will come back with enough people to blast their way through, piece by piece.


	3. Fade Hugs

“You are alive,” he breathes. 

In the Dreaming, she stares at him. He had almost given hope of finding her here. Searching and searching, and yet there was nothing. And now here she is, staring at him.

Staring at him with something that he can only think is  _longing._

Before he can make much sense of it (relief, he could understand; gratitude, or even anger as well) she is reaching out to him.

She clutches him.

It is not even a simple reach for his arm, or clasp of his shoulder, or even hand. She puts her arms around him and presses herself against him in a full-body embrace, and he is, for a moment, too stunned to react.

She is embracing him.

How distraught must she be?

He reacts, then; snaps out of his surprise, and reminds himself to her, he is a friend. And she is clearly in need of comfort. He puts his arms around her, and tells himself firmly that it would be inappropriate to think of this in the wrong context. He has not announced his intentions.

He holds her, carefully, and lets himself feel a wash of relief that she is alive. That she has found him.

“Where are you?” he asks. However much comfort she might gain here, he would rather see her safe in the waking world, and rid of whatever torment is causing her distress.

Whatever those creatures might be doing to her.

“In the Titan,” she replies. “I had to… I did something. The dwarves are anxious about it, but it was the only way I could stop the Blight.”

What did she do?

No. That does not matter now. That can be dealt with later.

He holds her closer, and curses internally. But tries to keep his emotions calm. Even if she cannot feel them very well, it will do no good to feed into her distress. He should have kept her closer by.

He knew they were interested in her, and her knowledge of this wretched Blight.

He failed to keep her safe. It is one of his charges to protect Mythal’s people, but what he feels is not only frustration at a job poorly done.

“We will come and rescue you,” he promises. “I am sorry. I should have stopped them. Did they hurt you?”

She holds him, silently, for a long moment. Long enough that he begins to fear.

“I may be injured,” she finally admits to him.

“How badly?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. I have a few cracked ribs, and I think there’s some internal damage. There’s pain,” she explains. 

What did they do? Torture her? Or simply wound her in the fight?

Either is unacceptable. She is Person. She should not have come to harm, not for them and not because of them. They have proven unworthy of the concern she held for them, they have proven to be predators who have harmed her.

Harmed her badly enough that she will need magic to heal. True magic. Not their crude fumblings - if they would even offer them to her.

“We will hurry,” he tells her. “I will cut my way through an entire army of dwarves if I must.” 

Her arms tighten around his middle for a moment, and he feels an inappropriate surge of warmth.

“Don’t be foolish. This isn’t their fault, and they are frightened by what I’ve done. Talk with them. Talk with Lady Ortahn. I think their magic isn’t working very well right now, and you know how unsettling that can be,” she says.

What?

She defends them?

They have stolen her, beaten her, injured her, and she  _still_  stands for them?

He stiffens, confused by her stubborn insistence on this front. Who would not be angry at the dwarves in her circumstances? Who cares if they are  _unsettled?_  They  _took her against her will!_

“They want me to reverse what I did, so they’re keeping me alive,” she adds. 

Better than the alternative, he supposes, though he will not credit them for failing to be _worse_  kidnappers than they could have been.

It takes him a moment to battle down his reflexive response.

She is injured.

He will not add to her stresses.

“ _Can_  you reverse it?” he wonders. Whatever she has done is likely better than they deserve; it would be fitting to simply remove her help, and let them suffer for their own ill-deeds.

“No,” she says.

“What did you even do?” he finally asks.

She pulls out of their embrace, and looks at him with the oddest expression on her face. Then she presses a hand to her heart.

“Before I left my world, the wolf gave me something. It is… well, what it is doesn’t really matter. But it turns out it can, sort of… it seems it harmonizes the tainted song that the Titans are hearing. It translates it through me, makes sense of it for them so that it doesn’t create the Blight. I don’t know what it will create instead, but probably something better than the Blight. I hope. The Sha-Brytol took me to the innermost chambers, and… well, we worked it out. A little. The song will destroy the world if it isn’t sung, but if it’s sung the wrong way, it becomes poison and suffering. I think we’ve created a sort of compromise now,” she explains. 

He stares, taken aback and a little unsettled.

He looks for any sign of what she mentions.  _Something_? What thing? He stares where her hand is pressed against her chest, and almost without thinking reaches for the same spot. Searching. 

Nearly groping her, he realizes.

He snatches his hand back and feels the heat rise in his face.

Oh, please do not let her see that.

He tries to force his face to behave, and focuses on the relevant part.

“So you have saved them, but they are afraid because you have changed how their god speaks to them,” he concludes.

“Yes,” she agrees. “But their wariness is merited. Even I can’t say what will happen to the Titan now, or to the lyrium.”

“Has anything terrible come of this yet?” he wonders.

“Not that I know of. But I’m in a cell, so I can’t precisely see for myself,” she admits.

Captured, injured, and caged.

He has been in battles sparked by far less dire insults to one of the People.

But he has no army, here. He cannot even send word for one, at the moment. So other means will have to be used to reach her swiftly enough.

“We will speak to the Children of the Stone,” he tells her. 

She looks concerned.

No, no. that will not do.

He hesitates, almost reconsiders it. But she takes comfort from contact, he reasons, and lowers a hand to her shoulder.

“It will be alright,” he promises. 

She looks as if she might hug him again.

He would not object.

But she refrains.

“Be safe,” she says, instead.


	4. Not Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pride's POV on the progression of his feelings. Short.

She was… strange to him for a long while. Potentially dangerous.

Hurt.

Hurt, he noticed, with increasing potency. The more he looked the more he could see it. The deeper it went, until he was baffled how he could have ever thought her an emotionless husk. An empty shell.

No, she was full of emotion; she was filled to bursting, and it was all trapped inside of her. 

Sometimes he wondered if that was not more painful, to live that way. If she would not find some relief in letting it out. But she did not wish to. She did not wish to change, and he found he would not wish her to change, either. Except sometimes. Sometimes, when he thought of the simplicity of seeing her spirit, free and flowing, rather than cut off and contained.

(He sees Fortitude, for the first time, brightness leaking through cracked layers, and he thinks  _that is like her…)_

She was strange and fragile and impatient, and she could die. She could die. Time itself could kill her. What was wrong with her world, that such things could be allowed to happen? What was wrong with his, that he could not know if it might  _still_  happen?

She ran towards dangers and… and he ran towards her. She could not be lost. She understood him. A touch to his cheek, a hand upon his own, a smile; rare and beautiful.

He did not know if he would ever understand her in return. But oh, he wanted to try.

(He understands much more now, and yet the world seems to make even less sense.  _She_  seems to make even less sense. She loves… she loves…)

There were secrets upon secrets, and they were all so dangerous. He wanted her trust. Her faith. He wanted her to feel safe with him, and to share the tools he needed to make certain that she  _could_  feel safe with him. He wanted her…

He wanted…

He wants…

Her hand is on her shoulder. She’s looking at him, and he wants her to see  _him._

(”She knows I love you,” she says of Mythal.  _But you do not,_  he thinks.  _You do not._ )

…Not yet.


	5. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The part where Lavellan woke up and found Pride staring at her has me wondering what was on his mind at that point. He seems pushed so far in every direction at this point. Poor Pride!

He cannot sleep.

His dreams - once a place of sanctuary and reflection - have become a tumultuous mess. Angry whispers and accusations chase him through the darkness. Fear dogs his steps. But he does not even have spirits to bargain with, to ease the chaos. He searches the Dreaming, but finds none. Whatever hounds him, it is…

It is unsettling.

As unsettling as the prospect of what may be hounding  _her,_  in return, and how ill-equipped he has suddenly become to help her with it. He should be navigating the Dreaming, trying to figure out the mystery of that night when she woke, riddled with injuries.

Instead he lies awake, disquieted and useless.

She is a very still sleeper. He is surprised by that. Having seen… well. He knew she had nightmares. Some part of him expects to see her toss and turn, but instead she rests so silently, he strains to even hear her breathing. And she doesn’t move at all.

Instead she curls in on herself, a tight ball beneath the blankets and furs.

His stomach knots, as if mimicking her.

He cannot really tell when she wakes, either. One moment she is lying there, and the next she is tossing aside the furs and rising. Peering at Curiosity’s bed, in the dark, before turning towards his.

Their eyes meet.


	6. Sea Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pride's POV on the fight in Andruil's hall!

She sprints away from him.

It is such an unexpected move, it takes him a moment to react. One instant she is running beside him. The next she is turning on her heel, bolting towards the main exit instead. For a half of a second he thinks it is panic. But the large doors are much further away from safety.

From the elves in the chamber.

From himself, and Curiosity.

He calls after her, and starts running himself. The air is thick and tense, and his magic crackles as something surges up. Flashes.

No, no, no.

The beast breaks the barrier of the floor like it is _nothing._

It surges towards her. The chaos of a shattered spell, and a room full of terrified elves; some attempting, futilely, to restore the edges of the barrier before it all collapses completely. He lashes out. A whip of jagged ice bites through the air at his command, before he loses his footing and his focus falters. It hits one of the remnants of the barrier.

He curses as he crashed into the surface of the water.

It stings, as if scalding hot.

Andruil’s creature is a massive and hideous abomination. Glowing veins and undulating scales, rippling over muscles. No doubt some ill-conceived gift from Ghilan’nain. It pulses with the tainted light he last saw in the Deep Roads, but he can make precious little of it out.

Curiosity grapples with him, and he snaps to his senses and they both lift from the water. Buffeting the air as best they can; though it’s difficult. The water seems to bite at their will, and snap the edges of their magic away. Andruil is doing something and Mythal is… not in immediate danger.

Unlike someone else he can name.

Find her. He has to find her, before the beast…

Ruthlessly quashing that thought, he searches the body of the thing. Where is its head? It will be seeking her, too, and where its gaze points, they’ll find her.

“There!” Curiosity cries, apparently seized with the same inspiration. Before he can stop her, she flashes through the air – a bird would be the best form, for swift movement. He is shocked, then, when a lioness leaps down onto one of the thrashing coils of the monster, and tries to race for its neck; just barely visible above the surface of the water. Claws scramble over scales, drawing thick, sluggish blood where they split the monster’s skin.

It is craning downwards, towards the edge of one of the walls.

_It found her,_ he thinks, with a chill.

He surges forward.

The beast thrashes.

The movement is so violent and abrupt, no one is prepared for it. Curiosity bites down on one of its fins, only to be thrown wide, and land in the water. He is still moving forward, and is not unexpecting to have one of the long coils of the creature’s body slam up towards him. It rises from the dark water like a tentacle, covered in spines and sharp fins. They smash against him. Knock the breath from him.

He slams back, trying to coat the thing in ice so he can shatter it apart; but the magic slips off of its scales. Like oil on water.

_The lyrium_ , he thinks, before a jagged fin presses into him, and his armour catches on the spines. They poke through the softer patches between his plating, and bite into his skin, before the whole mess of it drags him under.

Just before it does, he hears Uthvir crying out.

“Found the doll!”

Then it is all rushing water in his ears. Struggling, as he tries to draw his blade, so he can cut himself free. Perhaps split open the pulsing red vein near his head. He maintains enough thought to slip a bubble of air over his mouth. But his weapon is pinned by the fin, crushing him into the beast’s side; as if the thing, having tasted his blood, is trying to absorb him through its very skin. The water stings and burns.

Something moves towards him.

It takes him a moment to recognize the feathered lioness, diving through the water.

Then everything goes unexpectedly still.

The muscle movements of the beast change. No more thrashing. Just a steady unfurling, upwards. Out of the water.

High out of the water.

As if reaching for…

He looks at Curiosity, and then presses his hands to the flesh around him. If it is reaching, upwards – if Uthvir plucked ‘the doll’ from these waters – then it must not find its target.

It will not have her.

He meets his friend’s gaze, steady, close enough to see her eyes widen in realization.

_Get back,_ he mouths.

After one reluctant moment, she does.

Then he pours everything he has into his spell. Arching magic up the serpentine body. Tearing at it, with every ounce he can. Trying to get through. To burn out the muscles. To flay apart its tainted veins. Char its skin, rupture its membranes, do _something_ , something.

He pours and he pours, and the magic ripples off, barely catching until he realizes his mistake. The water sparks around him. The beast, however, is barely touched. The magic is sinking downwards, siphoned off by some hungry thing yet further below.

Dark spots dance across his vision. Difficult to discern in the dark water around him. He struggles, for one last moment.

Then succumbs.


	7. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: can we get a Drabble of pride deciding to himself in his head or something that he's 100% going to court Lavellan despite the obstacles?

Pride hates a lot of what he saw of himself, in the images she granted him of her life.

There are many, many images and thoughts of what he did that choose to torment him. Words this version of himself said that have begun to haunt him, like chilling condemnation of everything he ever assumed was true about the world.

The image of this figure often comes to him, now. Standing. Shoulders straight, hands folded behind his back. The very picture of pride’s folly.  _Exuding_  condescension from his every pore. As if each and every warning he had ever been given about his own nature had solidified into perfect realization, in that moment.

The man standing on the hill. Preparing to destroy the world.

There are many, many images. But one that sticks with him is, by comparison, almost pleasant.

It’s just a kiss.

Just a kiss, in a dream. A lighter, less brittle version of  _her_ , reaching for him. Pressing her lips to his, and then retreating. Flustered and embarrassed, before he catches her, and pulls her back. And kisses her much more thoroughly in return.

He wants to tear into the scene, then. To grasp his other self by the shoulders, and wrench him backwards.

“You do not touch her!” he wants to snarl. “You false creature! You do not touch her, when you are hiding in these shadows. When you are plotting her death and ruination. When your folly has branded her with magic that is killing her. When you are using her to try and regain the very tool you wish to destroy her world with, while you sit under the pretences of noble and selfless motivations.  _You do not touch her!”_

In his mind’s eye, the moment twists. His other self caresses her cheek. Holds her hand. And as the sky darkens, wrenches both arm and eye from her. Steps back, and leaves her to stagger, bloodied and bewildered. Calling out his name.

He strikes a nearby wall.

Hard.

His emotions flare. Sparks fly unexpectedly from his fingertips; and for a moment the air around him ignites with his anger, and frustration, and loathing.

Wisdom, he thinks. Wisdom would be to help her. To put aside his feelings, and make this yet another thing he will refuse to repeat. He should not touch her. Because the man in that vision was  _himself_ , and look what he did to her. Look at what loving her wrought. He should rescind his offer of courtship. 

But losing her would…

He closes his eyes.

Perhaps, he thinks, some parts of this story cannot be escaped. If this is one such part, he will take it. But he will make it right. There will be no stolen kisses, overshadowed by secrets. No resignation to doom and despair. He will not take her heart unless he knows he can keep it safe for her. That other version of himself, he knew he would break it. He  _knew._

As certain as his other self was of that fate, he will be certain of a different one.

No matter what comes, he will not give up on her.

Never.


	8. If Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Can we have another fluffy daydream of Pride? Maybe some damsel in distress- thing or a sexy combat lesson. Or he feeding her with frilly cakes, or a fluffy picknic. But as a daydream?

It would be nice, he thinks, if their lives were normal.

Not  _dull_ , of course. But normal. No evil alternate future selves. No horrifying poison made of tortured souls spreading through the bones of the earth. No godly hearts beating behind delicate, breakable ribs, summoning the attention of tainted monsters and corrupted spirits.

If all things were fair and as they should be… it would be nice.

He tries to envision it. Imagines her with all the rank and praise someone of her skills and ability, and quality of character, should merit. One of Mythal’s generals, he thinks. Not ostentatious, though. She would wear green, he decides. Simple, solid green, in tunics that were light as air and sturdy as leather, beneath armour she crafted herself. It would not make her seem more approachable to very many, though. The simplicity, he thinks, would make her seem serious. As if she had nothing to prove, and no care or concern for frivolous opinions.

And she would not.

They would meet during the war, he decides. If things were as they should be. She would come from one of Mythal’s more far-flung holdings, where she had led a successful campaign to hold the territory and protect the people from the incursions of the Nameless. Accomplishments that would see her invited to tactical meetings, and promoted, in time, to the rank of general.

She would be like the others, at first. Wondering what someone so young had done to merit being included in such meetings. Less than a hundred years into having a body of his own, and already attending tactical meetings? She would raise an eyebrow.

But she would not tell Mythal to leave her pets at home.

And she would speak to him, freely. She would listen to his ideas. Not because he held a rank, but because she cared about the content of them. She would refute many of his assumptions, frankly and without hesitation. Perhaps the village where she was born would do trade with the dwarves. In the mountains, he thinks, where magic is sparse and the Dreaming is not always close at hand. She would know how to get by without it, and how to surprise those who depended too heavily upon it.

Her emotions would be kept close by choice. It would make her seem cold, and he would mistake her for cold, too, he thinks. Just as she would mistake him for frivolous. 

But gradually, they would prove themselves to one another. Conversations would spill out past tactical meetings and formal discussions, following them from war tents and meetings chambers into debates over meals, and arguments that would see them pouring over maps, and through references. Burning candles low into the evening until one of them finally found the piece of proof they needed, and thrust it triumphantly towards the other.

He would make the first move towards courtship, he thinks. Sending tentative inquiries that would be returned with equal care. Casually slipping recitals of poetry and evenings of music into their routine. _Some stray words and sentiments occurred to me, as I was thinking of you…_

But then the war would at last come to an end. The campaign would be done with, and she would be decorated and victorious. Their victory would be less costly thanks to her contributions. She would look to him, and something bright would spark in the air between them. And they would break with formalities as she drew him close and kissed him.

“Stay with me,” he would ask. “Do not go back to the far reaches of the territory. Accept a position at Mythal’s side, and be by my own.”

She would say yes.

The calmer life would soothe her in some ways, but frustrate her in others. He would ever be devising new distractions for her. Challenges and entertainment. Diversions. He would rescue her from fraught social situations, and she would intervene on his behalf whenever the rumours grew too slanderous or disquieting.

She would become fed up with constant suppositions that he warmed Mythal’s bed.

One evening, it would at last become too much. She would pull him to an alcove, her hand warm against his, and then press him to the wall.

“The only bed you should be in is  _mine,”_  she would growl, before kissing him.

Kissing him so fiercely it stole the breath from him.

She would become embarrassed then, though. Let him go. Apologize for being so aggressive. Explain that she will wait for him. That she will endure the rumours, and try to do so with better restraint.

“I do not want your restraint,” he would tell her. “I welcome your passion. You are my heart.”

There would be no reason for him to hesitate to use such a word.

Or… perhaps there would be, even so.

Perhaps she would have a past lover, unworthy of her. Dead but still lingering in her thoughts. She would confess his existence, then. Her pain. Her fears. How he called her his heart but then abandoned her. Asked the impossible of her, consigned her to death, and left her broken and alone.

He would take her in his arms, and hold her close.

“I will never leave you,” he would promise, with no shred of doubt in himself.

When they finally made it to her chambers, it would be gentle between them. He would soothe her doubts. The wounds and worries on her soul. And she would sweep him away in the fast-running currents of her affection. Those fierce moments that stole his breath, and made him feel stripped bare and kept safe all at once.

The days would be peaceful. They would request time from their duties, and Mythal would grant it. He would show her quiet places. Hidden groves and old holy sites, and forgotten camp grounds. They would seek seclusion, and the delight they could find in one another. They would spend years discovering one another in whole new ways.

They would not rush it. Still, some would say there were moving too quickly when he asked her to marry him. There are always some who say people are moving too quickly. But he would want it. Every rite; every ritual. Every promise worth making, he would make.

“All this fuss,” she would say, shaking her head at it. But still, her eyes would brighten with every gesture. 

He would make her happy.

He would keep her safe.

She would not be hurt, not be lost, not be in constant danger.

He presses an exhausted hand to her ravaged skin, quiet in the stillness of the small healing rooms. Her breaths are shallow, but they are steadier, now. That is something, at least.

He shakes with the effort of another healing spell. Exhaustion burns in his veins.

If only things were as fair and as simple as they should be. If only the world was kind. If only it all made sense.

“Live,” he begs.

More than any dream, right now, that is what he wishes for.


	9. Kisses

When he wakes, at first, it’s in a rush of amusement.

His body is pained, his head is throbbing. The back of his throat feels raw, and his limbs ache as if he has run for miles. Which, in a sense, is the actual case. He had fallen into dreams to find only a sense of pursuit, and darkness, and spent the night either running or hurting. But now he is awake, and against all reason, the wear and tear of his flight has followed him.

His laughter tapers off when he looks down.

Blood.

There is so much blood.

Another warm body – hers – rests against him, and she is bleeding, still, sluggishly from wounds only half-healed. It is so potent he can smell it. The iron in the air almost overpowering his senses, in fact. Something curls in his stomach, and strange and violent ache, dull beneath the fear that abruptly overwhelms him. She is hurt, and that is not good, she is not built for hurts and she has already sustained far too many.

But just as his pain has followed him, so too has his exhaustion. He has not spent the night restoring his strength, but rather, losing it. He does not have the energy to fix this.

They are not alone, however. The Spirit of Love has somehow involved itself in all of this, twining insistently around the both of them. Shimmering in the early dawn’s light.

That will do.

“Love. Help me,” he snaps.

“Yes!” it readily agrees.

He has never merged with a Spirit of Love before. He is not certain of what to expect, whether it will go easily or rest uncomfortably upon him. The warrior in his arms stirs, looking at him in obvious bewilderment even as the spirit sinks into his skin.

There is a jagged cut on her face. There had been one in the dream, too, though it had been too superficial for him to afford any energy to fixing it.

He focuses on healing, first. Love is warm and unexpectedly powerful. Surprisingly good at helping him channel mending energies.  Part of it remains beyond him, wrapped around her, even as the rest twines with him. He assumes that is all he is seeing. The tendrils of Love still clinging to her. And he is surprised, at first, not to feel any particular crescendo of affection in him, no overwrought surge of desire. 

But then he understands, courtesy of the spirit’s communion with him – it is _love_ , and she is hurt. They are in accord that his focus should be on mending that, and helping her heal.

So he does. She seems uncommonly warm where he touches her, but not as if she is overheated. The warmth is a bloom that spreads through his own perceptions. Gradually, the blood begins to fade. The air clears. The knot in his stomach eases a little, and then he is left with her in his arms.

That’s when he realizes that he’s not just seeing Love wrapped between them.

Or, rather, he’s not just seeing the spirit.

She moves to withdraw.

He catches her.

“Wait,” he asks.

Wait. Because it is not just the spirit, no. It is what the spirit is showing him. Lines of light that weave between them. Beautiful trails, like a map to both of their hearts. Like light in their veins. He cannot… he needs to _understand._ It is all there, locked between them. These feelings he has worried over the legitimacy of. The truth of. He wants to _know;_ and it is so very overpowering, to see it laid out, so near to some kind of clarity. He cannot help but draw closer. He scarcely realizes it as he rests his brow against hers.

Something flares.

His heart aches, overflowing with a rush of sensation. He feels them. Every point of connection between them. All the ones which he has made, and which she has made. Which they have kept and cultivated together. The air between them is not empty. Nor is it filled with emotion. It is split by strands. By the weight of an anchor that each of them finds in one another. That they have been reinforcing the tethers of, steadily, by their own will, as they have drawn closer together.

The first strand. The first strand came from her heart. It settled into being between them the very moment they met, an echo of the love she had held for someone else. And it remains. But it is no bigger than any other strand between them. The ones which no alternate version of himself had any part in, and which greatly outnumber it. He looks, and feels, and is amazed. There he sees the strands that they wove when she first consented to an exchange of lessons between them. The ones forged in conversations. In dreams. In Arlathan. In the Deep Roads. At the shrine, where the truth swept the world out from underneath him. He sees a bright light, weaving its way around another, similar thread, and a memory sweeps over him of the first time she hugged him.

Hugged _him._

Because she did. These things that are between them, they are real and true. Even if it began because she loved someone whom he can never permit himself to become – that was only the beginning. And love, he realizes, love is not a single path to a set destination.

It is this.

_See?_ the spirit whispers.

“Oh,” he cannot help but breath.

In a moment, then, there is a sudden rush. The connections between them are vibrant as the sun. Worry passes over them, too. She loves him, and she is concerned for him. She wants him to be safe and well, so fiercely it hurts – and he knows that hurt. It aches in his own chest, when he thinks of her suffering, or dying, or being lost. More than anything, he wishes he could banish that fear from them both. That he could keep her safe. Keep her happy.

“Pride?” she asks, as if she has been trying to get his attention.

It is too much. Too strong.

With a gentle mental brush, Love withdraws in acknowledgement. It slinks out of him as easily as it had flowed in, and as it does, the world is restored to some semblance of normalcy. The light dims to the predictable standards of an early morning. The solidity of the room is no longer overwhelmed by the vast and shining beauty of the emotions in it. Only his own feelings colour the air, but hers are still there, settled beneath her skin. Like a lantern, he thinks, flickering and guttering, offering desperate comfort in a dark place.

She stays close, watching Love recover from their connection.

When she looks back to him, she stills for a moment. Her gaze fixes upon him. His heart beats faster. As overwhelming as it had been to see this through Love’s eyes, it is still more powerful through his own. She is so beautiful. So simply, perfectly beautiful, and she looks at him as if there is nothing about him that she does not adore.

For a long moment they simply lay there, staring at one another. She is more or less on top of him. Her lips are so close, and he has quite forgotten why he is supposed to refrain from trying to kiss them. Why he should not draw her closer still. He can still think of the reasons, but they feel so small, now. So much less significant than the obvious want in her gaze, and the answering burn in his breast.

“May I kiss you?” he asks.

Her eyes widen. She’s so close, he can feel the brush of her exhaled breath against his skin.

“Yes. But are you sure you really want to?” she replies.

In that moment, he does not think there is anything he wants more; and her doubt rends at him. It hurts. The thought that she might think he does not want to kiss her with every fibre of his being is unacceptable. He tilts his head upwards, and makes the attempt.

He’s read about kissing.

He’s seen other people do it.

Still, he has no experience in the mechanics of it himself. He’s not really prepared for the way it feels, just to brush his lips against hers. Nor does he properly anticipate the angle, or have much of an idea of what to do when he finally manages to get his mouth onto hers. His heart is hammering against his ribs, and he drops back down.

It was not much of a kiss, he knows.

It still tingles, as if that slight touch was somehow _more_ than any other would be. Though, he has always had a particularly sensitive mouth.

She looks into his eyes, and he worries that he has proven inadequate to the task he set himself to.

And then she swoops in on him, and he forgets how to worry. Or think. She captures his lips with disarming ferocity, delving into him so thoroughly that he is lost in the sensations. He spares a brief moment to think to himself that, oh, _this_ is the appeal of using one’s tongue, but otherwise he finds his mind has utterly scattered. She rests a hand against his cheek. He clings to her as though he is at risk of being swept away by the wind. She is so warm, and the press of her lips is intoxicating. The sweep of her tongue takes command of his senses. A breath from her, and it all seems to shoot straight down through his chest, a spark of potent arousal that nearly makes him gasp.

When she withdraws, he thinks to himself that she needs to come back. Why has she stopped? He stares at her mouth, marvelling at the shape of her lips; at what they can do.

Can his do the same to her?

“My apologies. I think I got a little carried away,” she says. Her voice is rough. It sends another shock of desire right through him.

He licks his lips.

“Please,” he says. _Please go back to doing that. Please touch me. Please._ He clears his throat. “Please, feel free to get carried away.”


	10. Haninan's Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is SFW!

Pride takes the letter from her, and sinks into one of the only chairs in the small guest room.

He… likes Haninan well enough, he supposes. He would like the man more if he could somehow manage to respect Pride a bit better, but on balance, Haninan has proven to be a good friend and ally. So he finds himself apprehensive of what this message could contain; especially if it requires urgent attention. Dire warnings? A frantic cry for help, which they might have already failed to provide with necessary haste?

News of some other trial that will endanger them all, to do with the dwarves and their gods, and Andruil’s hunters, and the earthquakes?

He is not surprised when he hears Haninan’s voice drift up through his awareness.

“Wolfling,” the older elf says, almost gently. “I imagine by now that you have learned much more of what is going on here than you knew when I last saw you. Yes, I know, too. Do not blame Puzzle – I had the tools to figure out more than most. I am positive it has been difficult for you. You do not need my counsel on that, I suspect, nor would you welcome it. Do not go too hard on yourself.  Anyone who tries to change the world runs the risk of doing more harm than good. But in the end, trying is also the only way to do any good at all.”

He blinks. This is… not what he expected.

“I can tell Birdie and Puzzle what needs to be known. But for you, I think, I am going to take the chance to say a few things in private. Just between the two of us. Go find Love, Wolfing, if that spirit is not currently wrapped around you in Ess’ tavern. Let it show you what you might not see for yourself. Because Puzzle’s body is not adapting to our environment as well as it could. Time withers her, my friend, and you cannot afford to waste it on your self-recriminations or fears. You need her. You need to listen to her, and you need to help her, and be with her while you may be. When she is gone, memories will be all you have of her. She has already changed the course of your destiny. It may not be towards a better one, but for all the pain it can bring, I have never known a love that I regretted. She has flown through time and survived great pains to land at your side. When she is gone, you will have to endure. So take what heart you can with her now. Forgive her, if you are angry with her, or forgive yourself at least enough to be there for her. Do not let fear waste these moments for you.”

Haninan’s voice fades off, leaving him only with the distinct impression of a consoling touch to his shoulder. A sense of apology, but also of fervent hope.

Pride goes still.

So.

She is dying, then.

Or… she _was_ dying. Before strange dreams healed her, and did who-knows-what to her. Though she might still be, even so. It seems they are back to where they began on that topic. Or maybe that is just what he can hope for.

He sits for a moment, and feels utterly lost. What can he do? There could be things worth trying, but she does not wish to change. And he does not wish to change her, either. He looks over at her. She is sitting on the bed. Staring back at him. She looks so much more at home, he thinks, in wild and vibrant places. For all that he dislikes Andruil, the leader has provided a fitting backdrop for this scene, of soft furs and dim light, and _her,_ beautiful and strong and still very much alive. Looking as if she has every right to belong in this world, so far removed from her own.

And she does. No matter what she is or is not, she deserves a place here as surely as anyone does.

_Rest,_ he decides. He should let her rest. Let her sleep, so that time does not claim her more swiftly. Yet the thought of leaving grates at him. Makes him feel too heavy to move.

He wants her to stay with him, he thinks.

Not just for now. But forever.

“Thenvuning was right when he said we would have to wake early,” he manages to say. “There will probably be a hunt, and we will likely be expected to join. Particularly if Uthvir decides we should.”

That hunter… there is some attention he wishes they could do without. Uthvir has a reputation for oddities, and unlike most of Andruil’s followers, Pride is not certain where it all comes from. There is no clear story for the hunter’s origins. No two tales that perfectly match up. But there are rumours aplenty, and each is more disturbing than the last.

Thoughts on this vein fly from his head when the true subject of his concern stands up from the bed, though. She approaches him slowly. With gentle hands she takes Haninan’s letter back. And then she reaches over, and caresses his cheek.

He cannot help but turn in towards her touch.

How could anyone love _him_ like this, he wonders? How does someone see the worst of what pride might become, and… and love him? He leans towards her like a flower drawn to sunlight. She meets him halfway. The kiss is as enthralling as he remembers. Her lips are soft and warm, her motions careful but confident. He doesn’t want it to end. None of it. He wants to keep kissing her, on and on. When she finally pulls back, he finds himself chasing after her in a strange, telling gesture of his longing.

Then he blinks himself back to reality.

“I think I might be the one getting carried away this time,” he confesses. Everything she gives him is precious.

But he will not presume.

“Stay,” she asks.

Oh.

His heart stops for a moment.

Oh, he will not presume, but there is no world, he thinks, in which he could deny her, either.

“Yes,” he agrees.


End file.
